


I Only Have Eyes for You

by The Wicked Symphony (SymphonyWizard)



Series: Of Shields and Widow’s Bites [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A little more angst than I intended, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 11:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16660312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SymphonyWizard/pseuds/The%20Wicked%20Symphony
Summary: It's Steve's ninety-sixth birthday.  Tony being Tony can't help but throw a party for him.  Little does Tony know that there's only one person Steve wants to celebrate his birthday with.





	I Only Have Eyes for You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Faith2nyc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faith2nyc/gifts), [Phoebe_Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoebe_Snow/gifts).



In his mind, Steve is illustrating the city below him.  Rectangular prisms jutting out at random from an unseen vanishing point far below, all generic shapes to create colorful objects.  Add a few details, some color, and some etching that can convey everything from shadow to decay and you have a sea of buildings.

On the outside, each building is nothing.  Most are generic shapes of brick, steel, and glass.  Look hard enough and sometimes there will be buildings that are meant to be works of art.  Steve is no architect.  Still, as a New Yorker, he sees the appeal in buildings.

The buildings that could be considered more works of art than anything else are the religious buildings.  Whether God Himself is flattered by ostentatious structures built in His name, Steve has no clue, but he can’t deny the beauty of the cathedrals and synagogues all over the city.  He doesn’t know the number of religious buildings in the city. 

It’s something he could always ask Google, or JARVIS, but call him old-fashioned; it’s something that he would rather find out through a brochure or an almanac.

As the sun descends below the buildings, turning them into black spires of varying size, lights begin to shine through.  Each light is like a leaf on a tree, an ornament sprouting from a branchless trunk.  In a forest of brick, steel, and glass, interweaved by streams of pavement and moving pebbles of light, each building is a tree of life.  Each building has hundreds of stories to tell. 

Every twinkling light is a story.  If asked, each person would likely have their own story to tell of varying differences and similarities. 

If Steve closes his eyes, he can clearly remember days sitting on a Central Park bench drawing the world as it moved around him.  Other days, he would risk his already precarious health, braving all kinds of weather as he sat on the rooftop of his apartment building in Brooklyn. 

It wasn’t as clean as this helipad towards the top of Stark Tower, but it had a homier feel.

Over the last couple of years, a number of the upper floors of Stark Tower were renovated into the residential complex that became the Avengers Tower.  Each of them have their own floor and a there are a few more floors that are a gymnasium, a laboratory, and even their own fully stocked medical facility.

It took some convincing, but a couple of months ago, Steve moved into the tower.  Even when he was still living in Washington, he had to live elsewhere while his apartment was repaired due to the damaged caused by the Winter Soldier.  Plus, when he finally returned home after the S.H.I.E.L.D./Hydra takedown, he found it had been ransacked. 

He spent long enough making a home out of the capital and it was ruined in twelve hours.  After his first date with Natasha, he came clean about the state of his apartment.  When he told her that he was living in a hotel, she wouldn’t have it.  The Black Widow is not an easy woman to say no to—no _Natasha_.  Black Widow is a persona just like Captain America is; she is Natasha Romanoff. 

In private, she allows him to call her Natalia.

She convinced him to leave the hotel.  Privately, Steve wondered if she was jealous of the hotel manager who kept trying to make a move on him.  He wonders if she is still alive.

Natasha’s brilliant alternative to the hotel where he had a nice big bed was her overstuffed couch in her living room.  It wasn’t an uncomfortable couch and it was wide enough that his feet didn’t dangle over the armrest.  More than once, Natasha made unsubtle invites into her bed, but he wouldn’t have it.

The upside to their situation is they somehow learned how to live with each other.  Steve had his morning ritual of going for a run a half hour before sunrise.  Natasha, for someone so fierce, is actually a surprisingly lazy woman in her downtime.  In the mornings, she usually walked around in her Harry Potter pajama bottoms and revealing tank tops. 

She is a decent cook.  Although, she quickly found out that he has a big appetite, eating many eggs each morning. 

The first week, there were many arguments.  Eventually they learned to coexist and by the time Steve’s apartment was ready for him to move back in, it took a lot of willpower for him to leave Natasha’s apartment. 

It didn’t matter much anyway when Tony convinced him to move to New York. 

Midtown Manhattan isn’t Brooklyn, but Steve has to admit that he feels more at home than he had since he came out of the ice.  He has his own floor, which he has decorated much the same way his apartment was in Washington.  Natasha even talked him into getting himself a decent television set. 

Actually, they go in between each other’s floors quite often.  Both their floors have a number of both their things.  It could be that both floors are unofficially two halves of a shared apartment.      

“Ah, there’s the birthday boy!”

Steve is pulled from his thoughts by the unmistakable sound of Tony Stark’s voice.  It’s soon followed by the Iron Man suit swooping upward into his view. 

Unfazed by the dramatic intrusion, Steve’s eyes follow the red and gold suit as it gracefully descends onto the helipad.  The suit meets some machines that remove the suit from Stark’s body.  Out comes the middle-aged playboy with his stylishly trimmed beard and high-tailored blazer and silk shirt. 

“Hey, Tony,” greets Steve.  “How was the parade?”

“It was great,” replies Tony as stony-faced as always.  “It would have been better if you were there.  They had a float, a birthday cake, and a group of dancers dressed like the girls from the U.S.O. tours you did back in the forties.  Oh and a big fat check.  Seriously, I have no idea why you refused.”

“Not all of us enjoy the spotlight, Tony.”  The one-hundred-thousand-dollar check was tempting, but Steve is perfectly content to just celebrate his birthday without this huge spectacle.  While watching some of the parade from the safety of the tower, he caught a whole segment where a number of people gathered outside the tower to sing him happy birthday. 

It was nice, but Steve doesn’t know any of those people.  Already, there has been an inflow of birthday cards, treats, and even a couple of gifts from people.  It’s all too overwhelming.  He wants to escape, take a quiet walk down the street in search of a lovely spot where he can watch the fireworks.  Growing up, there was always the same bench in Central Park where he would watch the fireworks.

Sadly, today more than ever, he can’t walk down the street without anyone recognizing him.  Hell, media outlets are beginning to wonder if Captain America is seeing someone.  There’s another thing.  Most media outlets from the news, to magazines, to tabloids refer to him as Captain America and less so as Steve Rogers. 

He’s so much more than a man wearing all-American colors and sporting a shield.  He can count on one hand how many people seem to understand that.  Tony Stark, a man whose ego and hunger for attention are bigger than this building, doesn’t seem to be one of them.

In regards to seeing someone, Steve enjoys the fact that he and Natasha have been able to keep their relationship under wraps.  After their first date, they started being more careful with their public dates.  Mostly for Natasha’s sake, they don’t even hold hands in public if they can help it. 

She’s an enigma, but one that he is slowly deciphering.  They both agree that she’s the more assertive one, but with information about her readily available—a week ago, she showed him her newly developed Wikipedia page—she’s more careful about what they do with each other in public. 

“Well, your loss,” quips Tony, turning around and heading off the helipad.  “Are you going to come inside?”

Steve scoffs and follows the billionaire inside.  Surely enough as they head to the common floor, they are greeted by a lavish party.  He did not invite these people.  Most of them he doesn’t recognize.  Unaware of his relationship with Natasha, Tony said that he would “find him a hot date.”  Surely enough there is a number of admittedly beautiful women in attendance. 

It was so much more flattering and entertaining when Natasha was the one trying to find him a date.  She didn’t even do that.  All she did was encourage him to ask out various women.  Steve does recognize some people.  He sees Thor, Bruce, Clint, and Dr. Helen Cho.  He also sees Sam Wilson.  To his chagrin, he also sees Sharon. 

Who invited her?  Her presence doesn’t exactly displease him, but since finding out that she was an agent assigned to look after him, there has been no allure where she’s concerned.  Her blonde hair is up in a bun, secured with American flag bobby pins and is wearing red dress.  It’s strapless garment with a skirt that stops at her mid-thighs.  She does look pretty. 

She looks as pretty as half the women in this room. 

“Look who has finally decided to join his own party!” announces Tony. 

Steve scowls at the man as all attention turns to him.  A loud applause soon follows, followed by the DJ playing a patriotic song.  To him, playing “America, the Beautiful” is in very poor taste.  He’s not the President of the United States, nor the Governor of New York, nor a senator, nor any kind of official. 

Still, Steve descends the stairs into the sea of people.  He does find a handful of World War Two veterans.  It’s nice to have people around who he can exchange war stories with, but it also puts an ache in his chest.  These gentlemen are all at least ninety years old.  They have all lived full lives, maybe had children and grandchildren, and Steve still basically has his whole life ahead of him.

Eventually, he finds his way to the bar.  He takes a seat with a heavy sigh. 

“Steve!” booms the voice of Thor. 

He turns and sees the god has come to join him.  His long blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail and is wearing a blazer over his T-shirt. 

“Did you dress yourself, Thor?” asks Steve. 

Thor regards his outfit thoughtfully.  “On Asgard, birthdays are a special occasion, lots of food and wine.  Jane didn’t think my ceremonial armor was right for the occasion.  Said that it would bring too much attention.”

“Does she have much to worry about?” teases Steve. 

“Not if Asgard still wants its prince.”

Steve turns around.  His eyes land on a short woman with curly brown hair with a fair complexion and a few freckles.  “And you must be Jane.”  He offers his hand. 

“That I am,” she replies, grasping his hand and shaking it.  “You’re probably tired of hearing this, but happy birthday.”

Steve smiles at her thoughtfulness.  “Thank you.”  He turns around and asks for a beer. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to try some Asgardian ale?” asks Thor, holding up a small flask.  “Aged a thousand years.”

Steve raises an eyebrow.  He’s actually curious as to whether his metabolism can handle that or not.  “Maybe some other time,” he replies. 

Thor shrugs as he pours a generous amount of the liquid into his drink.  “The offer will always stand.  Oh, and I do have a gift for you.”  He reaches into his blazer and produces an object wrapped in a silk cloth.

Steve takes the object and removes the cloth.  Within is an ornate dagger.  The hilt is decorated with intricate silver wires with a ruby at the pommel—a July birthstone.  He carefully unsheathes it and sees a double-edged blade with Norse runes.  “What do they say?” he asks.

“It’s a Norse proverb,” replies Thor.  “It basically says, ‘ _Be strong when you are weak/Be brave when you are scared/Be humble when you are victorious’_.”

A smile spreads across Steve’s face.  “Thank you.”  He’s not sure if he will ever find use for it.  It seems more ceremonial and ornamental than anything else.  The bartender comes back with Steve’s beer and he pops it open. 

“And happy birthday, Steve,” bids the thunder god, offering his glass.

Steve smiles and clinks his glass with his bottle before taking a generous swig.  Out of the corner of his eye, he catches something.  Subtly, he turns towards the crowd of people.  There are so many people here; it’s packed.  This place is like a nightclub and there’s still at least a half hour of sunlight.  If he’s been overhearing Tony’s loud conversations correctly, there will only be more as the sun continues to set.

Is he just letting in anybody?  And how many women can he flirt with at once?  He and Pepper seem to have some sort of relationship, but as far as Steve can tell, monogamy is still a concept he’s struggling to grasp. 

He only catches a few glimpses at a time.  She makes such a small spectacle of herself that to most she might be ghost in the crowd.  If she wanted to, she could disappear into the crowd.  A few men steal a glance at her, but she either doesn’t notice or care.  Having come to know her as he has, his thinks it’s the latter. 

In a sea of people, she is a beacon.  There are many lovely women here, plenty of whom are stealing glances at him or trying to pretend they aren’t talking about him. 

This woman is the only person who has his undivided attention. 

As she moves in and out of view, all he can do is watch her.  When he asked her what she would be wearing to this party, all she did was tell him coyly that he would have to wait and find out.  For whatever reason, he thought that she would wear something red or blue in honor of the holiday.  She’s Russian; whether she has convinced herself otherwise or not, she will always be Russian to him. 

It’s not as classy as the dress she wore on their first date.  This one is more revealing.  The black satin of her dress shines with a faint glitter.  One strap is wide and lacy and the other is thin, almost a spaghetti strap.  Together, the straps dip down to create an off-center neckline that just barely conceals her cleavage, but makes a splendid displace of the shape of her breasts.  Just gazing at how the dress hugs her body, the shape of her is absolutely breathtaking.  The skirt covers very little of her legs, if any.  It’s hard to tell through the maze of people, but being an artist has taught him to catch many details in a split-second’s time.  He catches a glimpse of open-toed black heels with ankle straps. 

He told her some time ago that she doesn’t need to sacrifice comfort for the sake of beauty.  He also knows that she would not wear a dress like this just anywhere.  He knows when she’s dressing to make a good impression, or to lure someone into a trap on a mission.  This is none of that.  She’s dressing for him and only him. 

And her hair?  Recently, she got a haircut and is now a similar length to when he first met her.  It only just brushes her shoulders.  One side of her hair is secured behind her ear with a couple of hairclips, showing off pair of American flag star earrings. 

Finally, they lock eyes and there’s nothing else between them.  She looks him directly in the eye, but she’s not turned towards him.  To someone who didn’t know her, one would not have caught the slight upturn to her lips.  Her broad, cherry lips which are so deadly, wry, and on top of it all, kissable and they are piercing him to the soul with a smile. 

Another thing that someone would not notice is the way she softly flicks her eyes towards the elevator.  She’s moving again and indeed, she heads to the elevator.  Now that she’s moving, the back of her dress is visible and there hardly is any back to speak of.  A large V dips into the shape of her back and mirrors the asymmetry of the front.  It’s not as low as some of the dresses these women are wearing, but it’s enough to cause an uncomfortable tightness in Steve’s pants. 

She disappears into the elevator.  Just before the doors close, she beckons with a crook of her finger. 

“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said, Capsicle?”

The spell is broken and for the first time this week, Steve wants to punch Tony.  He turns towards the man.  “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” he asks dumbly.

Tony laughs loudly.  It’s quite possible that he’s a little drunk.  “Oh, you kill me, Cap!”

“Don’t tempt me,” Steve mutters under his breath as he takes a sip of his beer.  He turns towards the woman next to Tony.

“Anyway, as I was trying to tell you, you see that chick over there?”

Steve follows his finger and his eyes land on a blonde woman.  It’s Sharon.  She meets his eyes and a smile spreads across her features. 

“She hasn’t taken her eyes off you since you came into the room,” explains Tony.  “You should go talk to her.”

Steve regards the older man thoughtfully.  Well, at least he _looks_ older than him.  “I appreciate you trying to be a wingman, but will you excuse me?”  He takes one last swig of his beer and heads off towards the elevator.  As he does, he catches some of the reactions.  Tony is absolutely dumbfounded, even a little hurt.  He will get over it.  Clint, who looked like he was in the middle of a conversation with Bruce smirks at him. 

Is he aware of his relationship with Natasha?

Steve doesn’t think much of it as the doors to the elevator close. 

“Where to, sir?” asks Jarvis.

“Natasha’s floor,” replies Steve. 

“Shall I tell Mr. Stark that you’ve left the building?” asks the A.I.

“I’d appreciate it.”  Steve does think that Tony made his computerized butler a bit too intelligent.

The elevator surges upward and his anticipation rise with it.  Very soon, the elevator reaches Natasha’s floor and Steve straightens up.  The doors open and he steps into a dimly lit place. 

Natasha is a woman who isn’t used to being in one place for long periods of time, so she’s not very materialistic.  She does love her overstuffed couches and she loves her books and videogames.  She’s a fierce woman who is proficient in combat, and she would likely snap his neck for voicing it, but in private she’s a big softie. 

He’s thought about buying her some bookshelves for her books.  She has so many, not all of them in just English or Russian.  Some of the things that are his are his vintage record player situated on its own shelf with a number of vinyl records. 

He inhales deeply and smells the homemade lasagna in her oven.  It makes his stomach growl.  “Nat?” he asks.

That’s when he sees her.  She’s carrying a small cake with two candles on it—a nine and a six.  A toothy smile is spread across her face as she takes a deep breath and walks—no _glides_ —towards him. 

“ _Happy birthday to you_ ,” she sings.  Steve feels his cheeks flush as she continues to sing and walk towards him.  Her voice is too lovely for her own good.  By the time she finishes the song, she’s standing right in front of him.  “ _Make a wish, handsome_ ,” she encourages in Russian, holding up the cake. 

He knows it to be a two-layered yellow cake with moist chocolate icing.  Taking a deep breath, he blows out the candles. 

“I wasn’t sure if I could fit ninety-six candles onto the cake, so I just bought these candles,” she explains, setting the cake down on the nearby coffee table.  “Anyway, the cake is for after dinner.”  The motherly sternness of her tone puts a smile on Steve’s face.  “And I remember you telling me how Bucky’s mother used to make you homemade lasagnas and I just…” her tirade is cut off as Steve drags her into a deep kiss.

Her lips rumble with a moan as she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.  His tongue flicks out, teasing her lips and she opens her mouth, allowing him access.  Their tongues tangle together and he can taste the minty texture of her mouth.  When they finally break apart, they are both breathless. 

“I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday party if I tried,” he whispers. 

Natasha raises an eyebrow.  “Even better than the party going on downstairs?” she teases.

“Tons better.”  He gazes towards the kitchen.  “When will that lasagna be done?” he asks.

“Impatient much?” quips Natasha.  “Forty-five minutes.”

“Well then…” he breaks away from her embrace, drawing an indignant frown from her as goes over to the record player.  He looks through the records briefly before finding the one he wants.  Delicately taking the disk out of its sleeve, he places it on the turntable and puts on the needle on.  Soon the room fills with forties smooth jazz piano. 

Finally, he returns to Natasha and offers his hand.  “May I have this dance?”

Her cheeks turn as red as her hair as she takes his hand.  A giggle escapes her lips as he brings her in close with a twirl. 

“ _Someone’s been practicing_ ,” she observes in Russian.

“ _I bet you’re happy I didn’t let you kill that dance instructor in Washington_ ,” adds Steve, continuing her native language as he dips her low.  Her leg wraps around him as he does.  It sends blood rushing to his groin. 

Natasha grumbles.  “ _To be fair she_ was _hitting on you.  Did you think I was going to let her continue to instruct you without putting the fear of God into her_?”

“ _I don’t know about the fear of God, but the fear of Natasha Romanov seems close enough_.”  He twirls her again and her hair flies as she spins.  To him, God has earned his respect for bringing such a woman into his life. 

“ _And do you fear her_?”

A chuckle escapes his lips.  “ _Sometimes_.”

They dance until the song ends and they stop for a moment, just gazing into each other’s eyes.  “Oh, I forgot, I have a present for you,” says Natasha, returning to English.  Steve remains where he is as she runs down a hallway and soon returns with a carefully wrapped gift.  The way she thrusts it towards him reminds him of an excited schoolgirl.  It’s adorable.

Steve takes the gift and rips off the wrapping paper.  His humor evaporates as he sees what it is.  It’s a large sketchbook with a case of charcoal pencils.  He gazes up from the gift to meet Natasha’s nervous smile. 

“You talk about art all the time and how you don’t get to draw as often as you like and…” she shuts up as he wraps her in his arms with another kiss.  When they break apart, she laughs.  “I do like your method of shutting me up.”

Just then, Steve sees an explosion of color outside the windows.  He and Natasha turn towards them and indeed they see fireworks.  She wraps her arms around him and lays her head against his chest.  “Happy Fourth of July, Nat.”

“ _Happy birthday, my Steve_ ,” she whispers into his chest.

He just wraps his arms around her tighter.  He can definitely grow used to that possessive pronoun. 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if anyone wants a more in-depth look at Steve’s stay at Natasha’s apartment.


End file.
